


Right Where It Belongs

by Pixeled



Category: Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Barely Legal, Blood, Cutting, First Time, M/M, Marking, Veld is a creepy fuck, knife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 00:13:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12923166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixeled/pseuds/Pixeled
Summary: Vincent Valentine's Turk origin story and how I headcanon he loses his virginity.





	Right Where It Belongs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustofwarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/gifts).



> This was written to Nine Inch Nails' "Right Where It Belongs". I RP Vincent with dustofwarfare and she's my Hojo and Vincent's past relationship with Veld comes up, so I wanted to write an origin story because why not. There needs to be more Veld/Vincent out there. I've never played Before Crisis, but I like Veld, so.

It’s Veld who teaches Vincent how to use a gun, although the kid has taken to it like an obsession. And he’s good.

All that hate behind the driving force of a pistol channels him how to use it.

The sky is overcast. He’s sneering as it looks like rain. He hates rain. His wife always told him, cheerily, that he wouldn’t melt, but goddamn, now that he has a robotic arm and she’s dead, anything is possible.

The kid has a concentration that he could certainly use in the Turks. He tells himself he’s just another kid runt he’s adopted, but as fat droplets hit his face they seem to call him out as a bold faced liar. The weather matches the kid’s mood, solemn and angry. Just before, he’d been crying angry fat tears that spilled down his perfect cherubic cheeks.

It wasn’t the first time Veld made a kid cry, so why did he feel so terrible? He’d practiced it in his head. Sorry kid, your father is dead. You have no one. Welcome to the fold. Parentless, nameless. You get to keep that name, though. Gunner doesn’t have the same ring as Vincent fucking Valentine. Happy fucking birthday.

It’s cold for an October day but the kid doesn’t shiver. He empties the round and hits all the targets in their papery vital organs. Veld whistles, waits until the clip is empty and the gun is down before clapping his hand on Vincent’s shoulder. Never touch a man with a gun, even if that man is barely out of his pubescent years. Good advice. He’s full of it. Literally and figuratively. He’s full of shit and he knows it.

“You’ll make a damn fine Turk. Welcome to the Department of Administrative Research.”

There is a hint of a smile in those crimson eyes, on those soft pouty lips.

Later, Vincent squints into the camera for his ID. It comes out looking like he’s suspicious of the world. Maybe he is.

Veld took him to his new home then—a miserable excuse for an apartment. Nothing too good for Verdot, head of the fucking Turks. No one calls him Verdot. His own mother didn’t even call him that. He has trouble remembering her now. She worked sixteen hour days in coal mines before ShinRa, before Mako. She never complained, not even on her death bed. He remembers her wet cough, though. How it used to wrack her entire frame. Fuck his father and whatever hole he’d crawled himself into to avoid his mum. But fuck all that. He lives in the lap of luxury now. If only he were joking. Steady hot showers are more important than matching décor. His couch looks every bit as second hand as it is. No bells and whistles here. He used to have a nice apartment, but what’s the use? Nice things were for nice people. He was not nice, taking in scrawny strays aside.

Vincent didn’t look impressed when he held his arms out, yelled “Ta-fucking-da”. The kid had one default expression.

“Gaia to Valentine.”

“Sorry sir,” Vincent said. His crimson eyes settled on the couch and he went to it, bone weary and looking older than just a teenager as he dropped his bags. His whole life was in two bags that looked just as beaten up as Veld’s apartment. “I just . . .”

“Yeah. I’m not the best at consoling people. But you’ll have a roof over your head. You can come and go as you please. And tomorrow we fit you for a suit.” It seemed a little funny to outfit the misfits of Midgar in pristine dark blue suits. These kids came to him broken, bleeding, and often having killed out of necessity—so-called monsters in society with youthful faces. And ShinRa put them on display. Lookit what we have here—child murderers in pretty suits passed off as the people’s protection, ShinRa’s protection. Hack some files, flash some teeth, and attend some soirees as the hired muscle and everyone starts thinking you’re civilized, but Veld knew better. Wolves in sheep’s clothing, that’s what they were. Nothing more than animals pretending at humanity. Sure, he had loved his wife, but now that he was a man with no one, he was even more dangerous, wild. Love had tamed and soothed the beast that was in his heart, but it was always there, quietly lurking, waiting. His own damn wife didn’t even know how much of a beast he was, how much chaos roiled just beneath the corded muscles of his back just waiting to burst.

Vincent was quiet. Too quiet. Too polite for a boy who had killed two bullies who had called him “slow” with his goddamn bare hands. He expected him to be dramatic, rage at the loss of his father. But he was quiet and still and polite like a goddamn servant. Maybe he was slow.

“Well. Bed is in there,” Veld said, pointing to the spare bedroom. “If you need anything, I’ll be staring at the ceiling in a useless attempt at sleep,” he said in as cheery a voice as he could muster. Then he left Vincent to get acquainted to the apartment on his own. Maybe he should have offered to cook something, but he hadn’t cooked in ages. He used to cook for his wife and kid when he had the time. He ordered out almost every night now—it was a terrible waste of money, but then, he didn’t give a shit. He shoveled the same horse shit down his gullet day in and day out, not even tasting it. He was on a first name basis with the girl from the greasy Wutaian place down the block. Called herself Misaka. He always gave her the same shitty tip, took his food, and shoveled it in over classified documents in password protected briefcases. Missions for his kiddos to be doled out like sweet ice cream scoops. Or pieces of bird shit. Either one.

He laid on his bed and checked the time. It was after eight and it was raining hard, pelting the window by his head. Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the ceiling when he heard crying from the other room. The kid was trying to be quiet, but the walls were paper thin. Below plate privileges. How the rain got through that plate he never could quite grasp, but he hadn’t seen the stars in Midgar for years now. Just slivers of black black sky like the space between fingers on a kid playing hide-and-seek. He always looked through the cracks though. Always looked for stars. There never were any—too many bright lights.

He sighed loudly, sat up. Looked at his clock. He’d only laid down for twenty minutes. Well, there was nothing for it. He wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.

He got up, walked to the kitchen and clattered around in it messily, looking for things to throw together. He didn’t want to order food. Too impersonal. But all he had was a few eggs and bread. Breakfast for dinner it was. He didn’t bother asking Vincent if he liked his eggs sunny side up or scrambled or whatever the fuck else people liked their eggs to be. He scrambled them, toasted the bread, and made strong black coffee. When he was done he rapped at the guest bedroom door, mentally telling himself this was Vincent’s home now too and that it was no longer his spare room.

The crying seemed the stop on the other side of the door. He pulled it open and looked inside. The bags Vincent had were at the foot of the bed and he was curled in a fetal position rocking back and forth. Shit. Veld was not good at comforting people. Killing people? Torturing people? Yeah, sure. But comforting kids? Nope. He’d left that to his wife when his daughter skinned her knee, cried about the stupid shit kids cried about. This was different. He couldn’t just say “sorry your dad’s dead and you feel like everything’s over, come eat some eggs”. But he did have to tell him about the food.

“I made you dinner. It’s not all that much. Eggs and toast and black coffee.”

Vincent looked at him with tears shining in his eyes and sniffled as he wiped at his big red eyes. He looked ten years younger. Veld resisted the compulsion to come and hug him, tell him everything would be okay, because he knew nothing would be okay again. He stood on shaky legs and walked toward Veld, who moved away and into the kitchen. They ate in awkward silence.

Veld didn’t know why, but when they were done and Vincent stared into space while he washed the dishes he looked back every so often to those haunted crimson eyes. And when he was done he pulled Vincent up roughly onto his feet and hugged him. Just hugged him. It was the most tender Veld had been in years. Vincent did not react, didn’t even blink at first, but then he hugged him back.

They went off into their separate bedrooms after that. Vincent didn’t cry again that night. There was silence. Still, Veld could not sleep. Those crimson eyes, big and wet, followed him into his dreams.

***  
  
Vincent sleep walked sometimes.

Veld was a light sleeper, but Vincent stumbled and broke things sometimes, shuffling blindly through the apartment, could wake up a whole army. Cried like a blubbering child.

He never told Vincent he did this, but he wondered if he knew.

One night, when he cried especially loudly and he could take no more, Veld opened his door and steered him back into his bedroom. He sat him on the bed, laid him down, covered him with his threadbare quilts. Vincent was eighteen. He’d been sheltering him for two years now. He was still the same quiet insufferable kid, but he’d grown. He was a good Turk. His cheeks no longer looked cherubic—were now angled and sharp, and he was frustratingly handsome. Didn’t even know how handsome he was, the idiot. With his hair disheveled in sleep he looked a bit younger, but Vincent was a man now. Maybe he had become a man the second he joined the Turks, but Veld had held onto his childhood a bit, still called him a kid. Maybe he’d have to stop calling him that now, but it was hard with how he was crying now, snot pouring out his nose and wetness dampening his long pretty eyelashes. Veld went to the bathroom, grabbed a wad of toilet paper (fuck tissues, men didn’t need those), and cleaned Vincent’s face, tossing them out in the waste basket by Vincent’s bed.

He was about to get up, to go back to his own room when he heard more inconsolable cries. He sighed. Shit. He hated when Vincent cried. He hated when kids cried in general. Instinct took over and he smoothed his hair out of his face, wiped under his eyes. He didn’t know why, but he lowered his face, kissed him on his full parted lips.

Maybe he did know, but he didn’t want to admit it to himself. He was almost forty. Ancient in Turk years. Vincent was eighteen. He was almost twice his age. He wasn’t even awake. But the fact remained that he’d wanted to kiss him for a very long time. Two years.

He’d been renting sleazy love hotels and picking up young men in bars. It was all wrong—he’d even told them to call him “sir”. He wasn’t always in the habit of self-examining, but he knew he was being a creepy fuck. Vincent was like a goddamn child of his, a mentee and child, barely legal. Part of him cared about that, but the other part of him gave no fucks.

Vincent was waking up slowly, looking up at Veld blearily.

“What . . . What happened, sir?” Vincent asked. He was shaking off sleep and realized belatedly his eyes were wet and turned red. As red as his pretty eyes.

“Come with me,” Veld said, getting up from the bed and leaving the room. The unmistakable clink of glasses drifted through the apartment to Vincent. Veld didn’t seem to care that he was just in his boxers, undershirt, and dress socks. He slept like that every night—or at least attempted to. Vincent tried not to stare at him. He was wearing sleep pants over his boxer-briefs, a soft gray shirt. He sat at the dining room table which was made of mismatched wood and had chairs from differing sets and waited for Veld to come over with two glasses filled with dark brown liquid.

“What’s this?” Vincent asked, picking the glass closest to him and lifting it to his nose, sniffing it dubiously. It smelled familiar. He conjured up the image of his father in his study drinking this exact drink, the profile of his face in sharp relief.

“Scotch,” Veld said, taking a long careful swallow from his glass. Vincent took a too-big sip of his, almost sputtering. Veld laughed. “It’s an acquired taste, but it burns like fuck going down and it kills feelings. Drink a few of these and you’ll be right as rain.” He held his glass out, clinked it against Vincent’s and downed the rest of the glass. Vincent followed after, downing his glass too, his throat working hard not to instantly bring the drink back up. Veld stared at the way his head tipped back, at his Adam’s apple as it bobbed, working the liquid down. Veld filled their glasses back up, almost telling Vincent how goddamn pretty he was. Instead he tells Vincent a man needs distractions.

“What’s your distraction, boss?” Vincent asked innocently. Veld almost told him “it’s your lips, fucking pretty boys who look like pale imposters of you.” What he actually said was “it’s classified, Valentine.” Vincent actually laughed. Shit, but he had a beautiful laugh. It was deep and tentative, like his voice, but better because he’s always so goddamn serious and never laughed.

“Tell me something,” Veld started, leaning over the table, playing with his glass. “Do you like girls?” He knew he was being provocative and he suddenly didn’t care.

“I’ve never been with anyone,” Vincent said, coloring a bit. “Is that weird?”

“Never?” Veld questioned, suddenly fascinated. He sipped his drink, eyeing the young Turk over his glass with interest.

“No. I’m scared I might hurt someone.”

Veld’s eyebrows went up, but he can certainly understand that sentiment.

“See, I was scared about that. With my wife. But I was so hyper focused on not being a terrible bastard that I was always very gentle with her.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent mumbled into his glass, as if he’d been the one to bring her up. He added the “sir” like decoration after. Veld waved his hand.

“Besides, if you do it with men, not much to worry about there.” He purposely sets the trap, sees if Vincent will fall into it.

“You like men?” Vincent asked, raising a delicate black brow. Veld almost grinned.

“Yeah. I like both. But since she died, been just men. Never bring them here, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

There is silence for a while. They drank more and Veld refilled their glasses. After a time he realized he was tipsy. Not fully drunk, but good and buzzed. Vincent must have been full on drunk at this point because his cheeks were red and his eyes were glassy.  
  
“Do you ever think about me that way?” Vincent asked out of the blue. He added the sir like an afterthought again. Veld thought briefly about telling him it was classified information again, but he was much too amused about where this was heading.

“I’m twice your age,” Veld pointed out. It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes. He wanted to say yes, wanted to go over to Vincent, haul him up by his stupid perfect hair and kiss him properly, but he just waited.

“Maybe I like older people. Men. I mean—people..” Vincent looked a little confused, and laughed softly. “I’ve never been drunk before. Gods, I must sound like an idiot. I’m not coming onto you. Unless . . .”

“Unless?” Veld asked, downed the rest of his glass. That was enough for him. Enough for Vincent. He reached his hand over, took the glass from him. “No more for you, kid.” Vincent put his hand over Veld’s on the glass, looked at him with those red eyes, and Veld knew he was going to fuck him.

“Not a kid. Sir.”

“Stop calling me sir, you idiot, and I’ll stop calling you a kid,” Veld laughed, thumbed Vincent’s hand. The electricity he felt at those simple touches—it had been a while since he felt that kind of anticipation. A fuck was a fuck was a fuck. This was different, though. He didn’t want to analyze it yet, so he just went with it. He stood up, feeling like his legs were made of lead, and pulled Vincent up from his chair. It wasn’t by his hair, but his mechanical arm was around him, pressing his lithe body against his bulkier one. Red eyes bored into his brown and he saw the caged beast that was Vincent. His lust, he thought, was right where it belonged in this moment. He kissed him, and it wasn’t the soothing kiss he’d given his unconscious lips earlier but a heated kiss that said “you don’t even know it, but you are mine”. He snaked his tongue inside Vincent’s hot mouth and felt sweet fire arch down to his groin as Vincent responded. He wasn’t timid or acquiescing, but challenging. It was the sort of kiss you had a cigarette after, so when it parted, he took his secret stash of smokes out from his liquor cabinet along with his ShinRa issued zippo and lit one, eyeing Vincent darkly.

“I don’t even know if you know what you’re getting yourself into,” Veld laughed, blowing the smoke up at the ceiling.

“I do,” Vincent said, pushing his chin up proudly, confidently. But Veld was sure he wasn’t prepared for what he wanted.

“I don’t just want to fuck you,” Veld said, moving closer, stalking, smoking. When he got close enough, he blew smoke in Vincent’s mouth, shot gunning it, kissing him with what he knew would be surprising possessiveness. “I want to own you. I want you to be mine. Only mine.”

Vincent plucked the cigarette from Veld’s fingertips, decided he liked the taste of scotch and menthol, and took a small drag before putting it out in one of the glasses. He met those possessive eyes head-on and kissed Veld again, tongue sliding into his mouth, exploring the taste of cigarette and scotch and unique masculineness. His hands balled in Veld’s shirt, stayed there. Veld kissed him back and fisted his hand in dark inky perfect hair, pulled. Vincent moaned into the kiss and Veld’s knees almost went weak at the sound. He laughed breathlessly, pulled Vincent’s hands from his shirt, and shoved him in the direction of his bedroom. He had a bigger bed than Vincent did, and he had a tube of lube waiting for him under the mattress. Vincent walked backward, staring at Veld, almost tripped before he turned around and pushed through the door. He’d never been in his superior’s bedroom and he felt a thrill upon going somewhere that was forbidden to him previously.

Veld stalked after him, pushed him down into the bed and pulled his shirt off aggressively, kissing him hard before trailing his mouth down his jawline, down his neck. He decided he couldn’t get enough and trailed his open mouth over his collarbone, biting, eliciting gasps and pants where he marked him. When he got to a nipple, Vincent arched deliciously. He smiled. So he was sensitive there. He trailed his mouth to the other one and bit, laved his tongue over it and tugged, and was rewarded with another sharp arch. He cupped his hand over Vincent’s cock. He was hard and throbbing and making noises in the back of his throat, and he was gently thrashing now.

“That feels so fucking good,” Vincent panted. Veld laughed.

“Just wait,” he promised darkly, pulling Vincent’s pants and underwear down, exposing his hot throbbing cock. He moved down and took it in his mouth and Vincent hissed and slammed his hips up, cursing loudly. Veld chuckled darkly around his cock and gave it a few powerful sucks. Vincent thrashed even harder and Veld held his hips down, looking up at his face. Vincent’s face was flushed with color on those normally pale cheeks. And his eyes were clamped closed. “Look at me,” Veld growled as he popped his mouth off Vincent’s cock.

“C-can’t . . . gonna . . . gonna come,” Vincent said desperately, hitting the bed with urgency.

“So come,” Veld grinned, swallowing him down to his soft wiry pubic hair, sucking hard. Vincent trembled hard and came like a volcano. Veld lifted a brow, swallowing him down. Jesus, he thought, had Vincent not come in months? He popped his mouth off his cock and climbed up his body to kiss him, wondering if he would think it was gross. But he moaned, kissing back, let Veld share his own taste added to the menthol and scotch.

“Wow,” Vincent gasped when the kiss parted.

“Virgins are easy to impress,” Veld said slyly. “This next part is going to hurt a little at first. Well, it’ll feel more uncomfortable than hurt, but then it’s going to feel really good. Or so I’m told. Never been on the receiving end, but I’ll take care of you.”

“O-okay, boss,” Vincent said softly, breathlessly in that deeper than sin voice that didn’t belong to an eighteen year old kid. And Veld really liked him calling him “boss” in that breathy voice. He wanted to fuck him hard and fast and relentless and he wanted to come deep inside him, mark him inside as his.

Patience.

He took a deep breath. Thought of his dead kid so he didn’t blow his load right there.

He grabbed for the lube, extracted it, uncapped it, and spread it over his fingers to warm it up before pulling the rest of Vincent’s pants and underwear off, pushed his legs open and stared hungrily at his pink virginal entrance. Vincent sucked in a breath, preparing for the breach of fingertips. He gently pressed a slick finger inside him, just slightly, slowly, letting him get adjusted. Then when he relaxed a little, he pushed the rest of that finger inside and hooked it just slightly, stroking it, searching. When Vincent let out a gasp and clenched he smirked.

“We good, Vince?” he asked. He’d called him that maybe once or twice, when he was excited about something the kid did, but he never really reacted to it. And besides, he liked it. Calling him something no one called him. Something that was his.

“Y-yeah, boss. Feels a little weird, but. Good?”

Veld stroked that spot with his finger again before pressing another finger in along with the first, pressing it all the way in a little quicker than the first one. Vincent hissed softly, his fingers and feet digging into the sheets, twisting them as Veld scissored his fingers and stroked his prostate interchangeably. It was a mix of good and weird and before long he was gasping “more”. Veld kissed him deeply as he added a third finger, started to move them in and out and prodding that little bundle of nerves that made him gasp more. Veld was drunk on his reactions, never mind the scotch. It’d been a long time since he’d been someone’s first time and it was delicious. Soon Vincent was a panting and gasping mess and it was intoxicating and good and other horrible trite superlatives. But Veld wanted more. He moved his fingers in and out almost to the knuckle and when he felt that Vincent’s tight hole was sufficiently prepared he pulled all three of his fingers out one by one slowly, biting his lip at the way his pink little hole twitched. Then he slicked his length up with lube and slowly pressed against him, watching the head of his flushed cock disappear slowly inside him, stretching him more. He knew his fingers wouldn’t have really prepared him for what it felt like to have a cock fill him up. Vincent threw his head back and panted harshly. Veld noticed he was hard again and smiled, hand sliding around his renewed erection to jerk him off, using the distraction to push the rest of his length inside his tight heat. Fuck, but he felt so good. This was right where he belonged, buried deep in Vincent. He breathed slowly, calmed himself down before starting to move deep inside him, pulling out, pushing in, building a nice slow rhythm. Vincent clutched at the sheets again, his name tumbling from his lips unrestrained. Veld hunched over him, framing his body, and kissed him like sweet fire as he stroked him with his hand and pushed in and out of him.

He realized he wasn’t going to last that long like this, in this tight hot virginal gasping and panting body. And that it was attached to his mentee? It was sinful. It was wrong but so right and gods. Those burning red eyes squinting up at him, glazed almost blood colored in pleasure. He was obsessed with those eyes—so unusual, so beautiful to look at, especially in the throes of passion. This kid made him want to sin over and over. He’d never really believed in higher beings. Sure there were crazy social justice warriors afoot who, like, didn’t want the world’s resources to be used up and legitimately thought mako was the life energy of millions of trapped souls, but he could care less about all that. And he didn’t pray. But if there was a higher being, like, say, a badass real Shiva and not just some weird trapped malarkey projection of her, he would have prayed to her that he could hold onto this one. This was hardly the last time he’d be doing this, but he wanted to make sure. Somehow.

Then he got an idea. He groped at his bedside drawer and extracted a knife. This would be messy.

“Do you trust me?” He asked, holding the knife out, pressing the flat of it against Vincent’s chest. He wanted to mark him badly. But only if Vincent allowed him to.

Vincent’s eyes opened all the way and widened. Veld thrusted his hips, rolled them so his cock struck his prostate nice and hard. Vincent whimpered.

“Y-yes. Trust you with my life, sir. Boss.”

“Then let me mark you forever mine,” he hissed. His usual flare was for guns, but he dabbled with knives too. He liked the way red blossomed where he cut, and he was cutting Vincent deep now, just over his heart. His blood trailed down from the half sickle mark and Veld licked at it, smeared his hand in it only to wrap his bloody hand around that blushing pretty cock.

Every part of Vincent Valentine was pretty and it annoyed him but made him feel possessive. He started moving again, thrusting his hips, snapping them, and more of those pretty noises tumbled from those pretty pouty lips.

“You gonna come again, Vince?” Veld asked in a voice that came out hoarse and slightly desperate. He wanted to come with him, snapped his hips harder and faster. He was rewarded with more gasping cries.

“Y-yeah. Come with me,” Vincent panted. How Veld wanted to be a teenager again so he could come like that, but once was good enough, especially with that tight heat and that red stare that missed nothing.

When he came it was after Vincent came. The clenching of his muscles tore his orgasm from him. He almost saw white. He hadn’t come like that in a long time. Coming had become something like clockwork, or maintenance on his mechanical arm, which needed taking apart and putting back together like his guns. But this was entirely different.

It was love, he realized.

Fuck.

He loved Vincent Valentine and that’s why he had needed to mark him.

“Uh. Boss. You ok?” Vincent asked. He realized he was staring.

“If I tell you something, promise you won’t get freaked out about it, okay?” Veld asked.

“Sure,” Vincent said sleepily, booze and post orgasm and late night hitting him like a powerful drug.

“I love you,” Veld said, kissing those soft pouty lips, pushing stupid perfect hair out of his mentee’s eyes.

“Love you too, boss,” Vincent yawned.

Veld moved, got up, gathered things to dress the cut that would scar that said “Veld wuz here” or something equally dumb but important. He’d patched up enough Turks to know what he was doing. Vincent hissed a little at the anti-septic, pressed his hand over the bandage and then kissed Veld.

“Sleep?” he questioned.

“Sleep,” Veld answered.

And for the first time in weeks he slept soundly through the night, his mind stuck in an endless loop of warm fuzzy crap. He didn’t deserve it—he was not a nice man, he told himself—but fuck was it nice.

 


End file.
